


a drop in the ocean (or a change in the weather)

by katebishoop



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Relationship Study, title from A Drop in the Ocean by Ron Pope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katebishoop/pseuds/katebishoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was insignificant, how it happened.<br/>It hadn’t been a revelation, or a declaration; it hadn’t been messy or desperate.<br/>It had been simple. It had been a transition so seamless that it was impossible to tell between the before and after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a drop in the ocean (or a change in the weather)

Without any wars to fight, construction became their new battle. It kept their hands busy and their minds occupied.

They’ve expanded their territory. Their new border runs along the tree line and a wall reminiscent of the one that once surrounded the drop ship (considering how it is made of parts scavenged from that wall as well as from that ship itself). The electric fence still surrounded the heart of the camp, and according to Raven, that was a problem.

“It needs to come down,” Raven insisted, “everything were planning on building isn’t going to fit, and I don’t have enough material to expand it. Not to mention that those wires could be put to much better use.”

Clarke and Bellamy looked at each other, and Raven suddenly felt that like she wasn’t even there.

Those two had their own language: the slightest tilt of the head or the width of the gap between their lips or the curve of an eyebrow conveyed a message no else could understand. They could read the creases on each other’s foreheads like lines from a book.

If Raven didn’t know them better she’d say that they had been affected by the radiation and developed mind reading powers or something.

But she did know them better, and she knows that they’ve been affected by something else.

Raven doesn’t even know when the last time she heard them say a word out loud to each other was.

Bellamy’s looking at Clarke with his head tilt down, and on the surface Raven can read concern. Clarke is a different story: she’s got her eyebrows knit together and she’s looking determined. Are they having an argument? Are they saying what a bad idea it is? Or did they get completely off topic?

Raven finally gets her answer when Clarke turns her gaze from the door back to Raven and gives her a nod.

“We’ll start tomorrow,” Clarke said.

“Yeah, good. Okay,” Raven was still reeling from witnessing their exchange.

(It never got easier, standing at the edge of a hurricane).

* * *

_War left wounds on all of them. Some were seen on their skin._

_Others went deeper._

_Some found solace at the bottom of a bottle or on the barrel of a gun._

_Others were lucky._  

* * *

Monty takes no enjoyment in brewing moonshine anymore. He feels guilty every time, like he’s helping others on their downward spirals, like he’s helping them drown.

But he isn’t alone in that, it’s his job to make the moonshine, and is it even moonshine anymore now that it’s  _legal_?

Once it’s made though, he hands it off to whoever’s job it is to man it. Monty doesn’t control who gets it or how much they get.

Personally, Monty can’t stomach the stuff anymore, the magic is gone, among… other things.

(Another person).

Monty’s coping mechanism consists of holding himself a little tighter, of speaking less, of making less eye contact. He’s just going through the motions.

There’s only really one person he would want to come out of his shell for.

(But he’s gone).

He tries not to think about it too much, but when he’s around them, it’s hard.

Tonight, he’s seated around of one of the campfires, on a log that’s across from the one that Bellamy and Clarke are seated on.

Their presence makes him uncomfortable; sure, it’s reassuring to see them, they are his friends and they made it back alive and they are safe and they are keeping the rest of them safe.

(Expect for one).

Monty isn’t uncomfortable because he blames them; no, he never blamed them. He never even thought to blame, never wished that he could somehow blame them.

No, he’s uncomfortable because he’s jealous.

He’s jealous of the strength of their friendship; jealous of the bond that runs so deep you can’t find a seam. He’s jealous that while they were drawn together he and…

He was torn apart.

He misses the intimacy that he had in that friendship. He misses the shared looks and knowing exactly what the other is thinking. He misses having someone to talk to, someone that knows him.

But mostly, Monty misses being touched.

He misses being touched with a purpose - a pat on the back, a hug, a reassuring shoulder-squeeze. Now it’s being bumped into around camp, a steadying hand if he loses balance if anything.

It’s his fault, really though, how he shies away from any hands that try to come out to comfort him.

It only makes him feel worse to be around Bellamy and Clarke.

They aren’t a pair that’s touchy-feely, they never were. They aren’t like Octavia and Lincoln who are glued together, or like Wick and Raven, who communicate through their hands. They aren’t affectionate. They touch rarely, and it’s often chaste, but it always has meaning. Nothing they do is without purpose. Nothing they do just is, it is always so much more deep and complex and intimate than that.

When Bellamy’s angry Clarke will grab his wrist or put a hand on his chest, or when she’s upset he’ll place a hand on her back.

Right now, they are sitting together, their shoulders lightly bumping each other’s as they breathe. They both have dark circles under their eyes and the firelight makes them look half-dead. They are leaning forward, having a conversation without words. Bellamy’s hand reaches out and touches Clarke’s knee - it’s reassuring, it’s saying “ _I’m with you,” “we’ll be okay,” “you can do this_.”

Bellamy and Clarke don’t even touch as they walk away. They don’t  _have_  to; they don’t  _need_  to.

Monty misses that.

He misses Jasper.

(but he’s gone).

* * *

_Everyone is jumpy for a while after. They’re skittish at loud sounds, at the snap of a branch behind them; nervously looking over their shoulders on their way back to their tents. Constant vigilance._

_It got easier with time. They settled in with their surroundings, they eased back into the motions._

_They were comfortable with being surprised again , for the most part._

* * *

Miller is pretty sure that Bellamy’s got some type of sixth sense when it comes to Clarke.

No matter where they are, or what they are doing - no matter the size of the crowd - he’ll know when Clarke is approaching.

When they were out hunting and when a twig snapped behind them and Miller turned his gun around but Bellamy didn’t even flinch, didn’t even turn around to confirm what who or it was, he just greeted Clarke warmly.

Or when their at the mess eating and suddenly, he holds his cup up to the side. Miller’s confused but then, lo and behold, Clarke appears and takes his cup in her hand and drinks before passing it back.

It’s how he’ll scoot over on the log for her to sit down next to him  _(she came up from behind? how?)_.

(Miller’s seen it in Clarke, too. She had just finished stitching him up after an accident and was washing her hands when Bellamy came in. Without even looking -  _without even looking!_ \- she huffed out a little sigh and gathered up just the supplies she needed to patch the gash he had on his shoulder).

Now, they're at the electric fence helping to take it down, but Bellamy stops. His eyes never leave the tree line as he searches for something.

Bellamy then says, “Lincoln said if he came back with company that it be bad news.”

Clarke’s suddenly next to him, and Miller then knows that Bellamy wasn’t talking to him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clarke take Bellamy’s hand in hers. Bellamy replies with a squeeze, and Clarke leaves without a word.

Bellamy’s gaze shifts from the back of Clarke’s head, to the approaching caravan, and then back to Miller, and he can see the hardness, the weariness of his expression.

“Find Monroe and your Dad,” Bellamy then says, “and grab your guns.”

Miller had hoped never to have to do that again, and suddenly he was very, very worried.

Because Bellamy wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t think it was serious.

* * *

_There is a difference between being the chosen to lead and being the only option: the weight is heavier._

_That’s what happens when you fight a war._

* * *

There are many different kinds of love. There’s platonic love; there’s romantic love. Friends and family are loved differently, same with a partner or lover.

And then there’s Bellamy and Clarke.

Octavia isn’t sure what that is.

The meeting with the people that came back with her and Lincoln from Polis had not gone over well. And, boy, was Octavia pissed off. She needed to find Bellamy and get some answers because  _seriously?_

And, oh, she found him alright.

She had stopped short of the council chamber when she caught a glimpse of them in the crack in the door.

They were standing with arms wrapped around each other. Clarke was between Bellamy’s legs and he was leaning back against the edge of the table. His forehead was titled down to meet hers, their eyes closed.

_"Now there’s something I thought I’d never see.”_

That’s what she had said when Clarke had launched herself into her brother’s arms after they made it back to camp.

She isn’t sure what to think now, because this is not something she had fathomed. It’s not something she ever pictured as happening or not happening.

Octavia notices something else strange: they are both crying.

Clarke’s shaking slightly and they’ve both got tear streaks and snot dripping from their nostrils. They look much more haggard and exhausted than they did earlier.

Bellamy is saying something in hushed tones and Octavia can’t make it out but she sees Clarke nod.

All the anger Octavia had is gone now. One of her main issues was how quickly they had succumbed to the ambassadors, how easily it appeared they made their decision. She could see now that she was wrong.

Octavia knows her brother, but she isn’t sure what to make of this.

* * *

_It was insignificant, how it happened._  

_It hadn’t been a revelation, or a declaration; it hadn’t been messy or desperate._

_It had been simple. It had been a transition so seamless that it was impossible to tell between the before and after._

* * *

Bellamy and Clarke were always the last to bed and the first to rise. No one even knew where Clarke’s quarters where, did she even have quarters?

Well, not her own.

Her and Bellamy had been sharing; their few possessions and clothes intermingled, indistinguishable from each other.

They shared the bed; they slept tangled in each other - legs, arms. Sometimes Bellamy would hold her, sometimes she would hold him.

Nightmares were a common thing, and they handled them best with each other.

They handled everything best together.

And one night, one indistinguishable, insignificant night out of the three-hundred and sixty-five in the year, they kissed.

Lying in bed, facing each other, their warm breath mixed between them; it was gentle and soft and neither one of them acted before the other. One look in the each other’s eyes and they just  _knew_.

(They haven’t said I love you; they didn’t really need too: they know already).

When they first have sex, a while later on a different unremarkable day, it’s the same. It just happened, they just knew.

They don’t speak during it. They don’t talk after. They don’t mention it.

Small, mirrored smiles was all the reassurance they needed.

* * *

_Is it possible to tell when another blade of grass grows in a field? Or when a grain of sand blows off a beach?_

_It was just another drop in the ocean; it was the most miniscule change in the weather._

_It had been as indistinguishable as one ant from the next._

_People would like to think that they knew it all along, but the truth is, they had no idea._

* * *

The first time they kiss in public is when everyone else finds out. It’s when they are finally forced to part, because, god, they never would be apart again if they could help it.

But Clarke has to go to Polis today, and Bellamy will leave for the sea tomorrow.

They hadn’t wanted too, but they know they needed too. Last night they had held each other a little tighter, they had kissed a little deeper.

They had said the words.

The group is at the edge of what’s left of the electric fence. After hugging Monty goodbye, Clarke goes to Bellamy.

(They are both reminded of when they were in this exact position so, so long ago. But this time there are no hearts breaking).

Their kiss is quick but it conveys a thousand words. They both have tears in their eyes:

Because they don’t want to be away from each other.

Because they wonder if they made the right choice.

Because they don’t want to drag their people back into a war.

They’ve lost too many people already.

_“May we meet again.”_

(They wouldn’t lose each other; no, not this time).

**Author's Note:**

> [A Drop in the Ocean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mt8jifKlbTc) by Ron Pope
> 
> come hang out over on [tumblr](http://bellakeyblake.tumblr.com)!


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